Never knew I would lie cracked
on the sand which is mild-gold
and would kiss it where you’d stepped
and absorb it with sea salt.
Never thought I would die glad,
never thought I would go hence.
I am goner, I’m yours, and
this is final and last sense.
And the sun has become less,
and it’s light now seems not true,
than the world that’s as bright as
very center of it – you.